


Jawboned

by ballpoint_banana



Category: Fear the Walking Dead (TV)
Genre: Character Study, Drinking & Talking, Episode: s03e07 The Unveiling, Gen, Lawyers, Native American Character(s), Pre-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-24
Updated: 2018-04-24
Packaged: 2019-04-27 02:27:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,438
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14415663
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ballpoint_banana/pseuds/ballpoint_banana
Summary: After a hearing regarding the Ranch, Jake buys Walker a drink.





	Jawboned

The Otto kid meant well. Or at least, he probably didn’t mean any ill. He was _definitely_ trying to assuage his own guilt—that much was obvious by the way he refused to look Qaletaqa in the eye—but he might have been making some abortive attempt at repentance, too. So often, the two goals were mixed up to the point of inseparability. Taqa had always thought that there wasn't really a meaningful difference in the first place.

“You want another?” the kid said in the bar seat beside him, eyeing the empty glass in Taqa’s hand. His voice was hard to read.

Taqa shook his head. The kid—not “Mr.Otto” as Taqa had referred to him in the courtroom today—had already insisted on buying him two shots of some sour-smelling hard liquor after the hearing. Any more, and he’d run the risk of ruining his buzz, and getting drunk in front of this white boy on borrowed cash in a dive bar—on a fucking _Thursday,_ no less—would be, to put it mildly, colossally stupid from every perspective.

All of this was still just diplomacy. Part of the never-ending song-and-dance. He wasn’t here to show weakness or play into stereotypes or lick his wounds.

Why was he here?

Junior— _Jake_ —sighed as he thumbed the fraying label of his beer. He had been nursing the same IPA for a half-hour now, and the liquid had barely sunk past the neck of the bottle. Taqa wondered if maybe he’d only been pretending to sip it for whatever reason.

“You made a strong case today,” Jake said a little suddenly, as if just now remembering the thought.

Taqa raised an eyebrow.

“When you brought up—what was it?” Jake continued. “ _Blatchford v. Noatak?_ And it’s application to the Eleventh Amendment. It caught me off-guard. I thought for sure you'd convinced the judge. Just..." He was waffling now, winding a hand in front of him as if he could coax the words out of his mouth. "All I mean to say is...you made some damn good points."

 _Please._ The condescension made Taqa's skin itch.

“I let you buy me a damn drink,” he said. “I don’t need any more of your pity.”

Jake frowned. “I wasn’t…it’s not pity. I mean it.”

Taqa studied him; thin lips drawn into a tight line, tensed jaw, wounded puppy-dog eyes. Christ, he was young. He looked like he stumbled out of the cradle of law school yesterday, all dewy and foolish and hopeful. Taqa had been the same way once, although the United States Judicial System had beaten it out of him quickly.

“ _Blatchford v. Native Village of Noatak_ is boilerplate,” he said. “It comes up every time I make this argument. It will  _continue_ to come up. I can guarantee as much if you keep doing your father’s dirty work.”

That hadn’t been a joke, not really, but Jake didn’t seem to notice; he let out a quickened breath from his nose, lopsided half-smile on his face.

“Yeah,” he said. “Well. Unfortunately, Mr. Walker, it looks like that’s going to be the case.”

“Too bad,” Taqa said dryly. He gripped the glass a little tighter in his hand.

He had to admit it: Jake was a good lawyer. Of course, it didn’t take a brilliant legal tactician to convince a judge that an Indian’s land belonged to a white man, but Jake was skilled at playing the game regardless. He was charming. Well-spoken. He had a good sense of when to pull out the obscure laws and legal precedents and when to press on the nerve of common sense. He should’ve been off in a big city somewhere, arguing cases in front of juries, maybe even doing some damn good in the world. Instead, he was here, under Jeremiah fucking Otto’s thumb. A thorn in Taqa’s side.

“Mr. Walker?” Jake said.

Taqa blinked. He looked at Jake.

“You alright, sir?”

 _‘Sir.’_ God. Taqa was getting too old for this.

“You know about the Dawes Act?” Taqa said, pushing his glass away from him.

Jake looked taken aback. “Oh. Uh, of course. It was the law that allowed the federal government to divide up tribal land into private allotments for individual Native Americans. Later it was essentially overturned by the Indian Reorganization Act...although, individual tribes could deny the IRA's terms, and many of them did.”

Jake’s tone was firm, veering slightly towards suspicion as he got to the footnote at the end. It seemed as if he thought Taqa was trying to pick another fight about the specifics of California land laws. Taqa ignored this.

“And do you know who supported?” he said.

Jake’s brow furrowed. “Sorry?”

“When the law was first proposed. Do you know who supported it?”

Jake stared for a moment, then shook his head.

“It was supported by politicians who wanted to take the surplus land created by the allotment process," Taqa said. "They could make a quick buck and hopefully kill-off the rest of us in the process. It was the politicians elected on platforms of ethnic cleansing. Genocide.”

Jake shifted uncomfortably in his seat. Taqa fought the urge to roll his eyes.

“But,” he continued, “the law was also supported by the ‘Friends of the Indian.’ People who thought taking our land then giving a sliver of it back would teach us American values, make us into real citizens. They thought they were helping us. Saving us. Doing the right thing. The Act made strange bedfellows, didn’t it?”

“Yeah," Jake said. He sighed heavily through his nose. "I suppose it did.”

A long moment passed. Taqa breathed in the too-thin air. He wasn't sure what he'd been expecting—for the kid's eyes to go wide? For him to suddenly realize the error of his ways? He already knew. Of course he knew. He might have been blind to what his father really was, but when he went home tonight, he would be going home to land he'd fought to keep in the wrong hands.

There was a lot more that could be said; about complacency, about blind loyalty, about good intentions and the technicalities of paving roads to hell. Taqa said none of it. Instead, he stood up and reached into his back pocket, pulling out a few crisp and cleanly-folded bills.

Jake frowned up at him. “Mr. Walker, you don’t have to do that.”

Now, Taqa really did roll his eyes. “Did you actually think that I’d let you pay for my drink?”

“Alright," Jake huffed, sticking his tongue into his cheek. "Suit yourself.”

 _I will_ , Taqa thought as he threw the bills down onto the bar. He grabbed his briefcase and turned to go, but as he did, Jake spoke once more.

“Mr. Walker...I’m sorry about all of this," he said.

Taqa couldn’t muster up a laugh this time. “Are you, now?”

“I just wanted us to reach an understanding. My father...he'll never abandon the Ranch. You know that, don’t you?”

 _And you?_ Taqa wanted to say. _How badly do you want this? How far will you go? Will you always cling to the letter of the law? Or will you start drawing blood one day, just like your old man?_

Taqa wanted to say this, but he didn’t. Instead, he said, “Neither will I.”

He walked out the door into the cool evening without turning around.

 

* * *

 

Years later, after the dead have risen and the sinews of society have rotted away like carrion, Qaletaqa sits with Jake again.

This time, they aren’t in suits. They’re each wearing what are probably the only clothes either of them owns anymore, glistening with sweat and dirt and long-dried blood. Jake doesn't call him "sir" anymore, and Taqa wouldn't let him if he tried. They aren’t side by side now, either; not in a courtroom, not in a bar. They’re facing each other like men.

And there are no laws. None that matter.

Across from him, Jake looks older—almost alarmingly so. Hard times and stress have carved out sharp angles in his face, given him bags under his eyes. The girl beside him has eyes like a doe and looks as young as Jake once did. They’re both staring at him, and as they do Jake is rattling on like he does, trying to talk his way out of a situation long-past talking. He says something about “having an understanding.” A holdover from before. A fantasy.

"The days of the white man's courts are over," Taqa says. "Land grabs, desecration—over. Now, you have our verdict.”

The first human's verdict.

**Author's Note:**

> Haven't watched this show in a hot minute but I watched Woman Walks Ahead and an episode of TWD in close succession the other day and I got emotional and everything just spiraled out of control, man
> 
> fyi, for the purposes of this fic Walker is Hopi/Kumeyaay


End file.
